Killing the Dying
by mk162rl8619
Summary: Sherlock and Joan try to connect the murders of individuals dying from cancer. It's a little dark, but all reviews, even negative ones are greatly appreciated! :)
1. Chapter 1

It was hot. Smothered by the air, a man stumbled through a dark room. Meager light swelled forth from a few undersized candles. It was hot.

Some sister of incense drifted through him. He took off his hat. He never took off his hat. His recent baldness embarrassed him.

Staggering into the center of the room, he was aware of a hand on his shoulder. The hand felt heavy and fleshy as it rested on the pale sticky layer between it and his bone.

"Carl? Are you all right?" Was it a siren who spoke to him? No, it was his wife, he knew that. He nodded and pushed her away. God, he wasn't going to lose his mind next was he? He'd already lost half his bodyweight and hair—the mind was all he had left. Not like it would matter…

A low chant entered his ears, reverberating in his chest cavity. His eyes rested on the flame of a candle. Hunched over and frozen, supporting himself with two hands on the back of a wooden chair, he waited, as he felt himself melting, melting away.

As his knees disintegrated into the floor, voice cut through the chant and made its way to the center of his brain. It was the siren. He had no idea what it was saying. He did his best to scream…

"What the hell have you done to me, witch?"

By the time the chaos began, Carl McNamara was dead.

Joan jolted out of her slumber. Above her head, an arrow vibrated. Easing her way up, she saw that it was sticking to the wall via suction cup. She whipped her head towards her door. Her eyes met an empty threshold.

"Sherlock!" She scrambled out of bed and, snatching the arrow from the wall, stormed into the hallway.

Standing in the hall, barefoot, but otherwise dressed, was the detective. Smiling, he gestured toward the bow in his hand.

"I see you have not taken up my request that you learn self-defense."

"Who else but you would shoot miniature toilet plunger at my head at eight o'clock in the morning?" She threw it at him. Sherlock danced to the side.

"Ever heard of expecting the unexpected?"

"Ever heard of not-being-an-ass?" Joan shook her head, smoothing her hair with both hands.

"Oooh, grumpy in the morning, I see." Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Would you feel better if I told you that your early morning efforts were not a waste?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Murder, Watson. Gregson has just informed me via text message that we have, yet another, cold-blooded psychopath in this marvelous city of ours. Yours, rather." Sherlock handed Joan his cell phone. _Man dead. 6:47 AM. Weird. _Joan tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.

"They know the exact time of death?" Sherlock bounced his head. "So he was killed in front of other people?"

"More or less." Sherlock took his phone from Joan. He reread the message, and then shifting his weight, raised his eyes to her, one eyebrow arched. Joan looked to the ceiling for inspiration.

"Poison."

"My thoughts precisely." Sherlock bounded across the hall and down the stairs. "I'll be waiting in the front. I've already put milk in your cereal."

Joan and Sherlock stood beside Detective Bell as a roll of yellow caution tape wove its way around the room. She was hungry, having thrown out her pre-milked cereal. Seven used candles sat before seven wooden chairs. The body of Carl McNamara sprawled behind the second chair from the door. Joan winced. She could see that even when living, Carl McNamara was the picture of death. A woman, dark-haired, with tawny skin and green eyes, sat in a chair, her entire body racked with sobs. A medical team surrounded her. So far, she hadn't spoken. The detectives turned to a middle-aged and bleach-blonde woman who, though trembling, was capable of conversation.

"Can you tell me what happened, Ms. Lindbar?" Detective Bell's pen hovered over a notepad. Sherlock, who had been examining the body, stopped to listen.

"Yes detective." She sniffled and took a deep breath. "We were in the sanctum, having a meditative session, when Carl walked in. He couldn't seem to keep balance, when suddenly he just-" Her voice broke. The detective waited. "I'm sorry." She said.

"It's no problem at all, Ms, Lindbar, at your own pace." She took another deep breath.

"He collapsed. By the time we realized, he was dead."

"Did he say anything before he died?" Ms. Lindbar started to speak, then stopped. She glanced at the woman in the chair. "Ms. Lindbar, did he say anything?" Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, Ms. Lindbar said,

"He said, 'What have you done to me, you witch?' But detective, if you're thinking Eleanor did this, you're wrong. Eleanor is the sweetest thing you'll ever meet, and a such a delicate creature. These last few months have been very difficult for her too."

"So far we don't think anything. How long did you know the McNamaras?"

"Five months. They started coming to our sessions when Carl was diagnosed with stage III pancreatic cancer."

"What exactly is a meditative session, Ms. Lindbar?" Sherlock walked over, his eyebrows knitted. Ms. Lindbar shrugged.

"It's a thing we do here at Panteras Wellness Center. It's to help people with severe emotional difficulties."

"Do you run the class?"

"Oh no. No, I'm not qualified."

"You certainly do not look like someone with severe emotional difficulties." Mrs. Lindbar tilted her head with an uncertain smile.

"Excuse me?"

"You care for your personal appearance, have two lovely children on your key-ring and your wedding ring is in sparkling condition. If I'm not mistaken, the earrings, quite expensive I may add, are new. Clear signs of a happy marriage and beautiful family. At the risk of being redundant, I repeat myself, 'You certainly do not look like someone with severe emotional difficulties.'" Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and waited.

"N-no, I'm not. You're right, I am very happy."

"Why the session then?" Ms. Lindbar looked to Detective Bell, who gestured for her to answer.

"I myself had breast cancer two years ago. It's now in remission. I consider myself extremely lucky, not just for surviving, but for the support I received from everyone I met, even complete strangers. I couldn't have done it on my own. And now, I want, if I can, to give it back. To give the gift of life back. So I found Panteras."

"You're here as a role model." Joan said. Ms. Lindbar nodded.

"Of course, not everyone has my kind of luck. Carl, for instance." She snatched a glance at the body, and shuddered. "His business tanked right when he got the news. His wife was threatening to leave him, but once she found out, she felt terrible. The damage was done, though. Carl never forgave her. He couldn't. He was too worn down. He knew he was going to die."

"How could he know?" Joan asked. Ms. Lindbar shrugged.

"I've seen enough death. Humans have instincts. If someone knows they're going to die, really knows it, they're not often wrong. Which causes which, I have no idea. Is that all?"

"Yeah, that'll be all for now. Thank you for your help, Ms. Lindbar. We'll be in touch." Detective Bell nodded and turned to Sherlock. He glanced over his shoulder at Eleanor McNamara.

"So what do you think? Guilty or innocent?" Sherlock compressed his lips.

"Difficult to say. A proper motive eludes me."

"Yeah, why wouldn't she just wait for him to die?" Joan looked at Sherlock.

"Haven't the faintest."


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Bell leaned over to a paramedic. "As soon as Mrs. McNamara calms down, we'd like to ask her a few questions." The paramedic nodded.

"It's awful." Joan said. Ms Lindbar now had her arm around Eleanor McNamara. "Just imagine what it would be like if your husband or wife's last words were…that." She turned. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock had left her side, and was now squatting beside the body. "Watson, would you please come over?" He had pulled up the sleeve of Carl's shirt to expose his forearm. There were a series of bruises. "Take a look."

"At what?"

"Bruising."

"Of course there's bruising. He had cancer. He would have been getting IV chemo at least." Sherlock shook his head. Joan narrowed her eyes. A cold feeling began to spider-web through her stomach.

"According to our friend Ms. Lindbar, he's been aware that his impending death was unstoppable for months. Most people choose to stop chemotherapy once they've given up. We can check with the hospital to verify, but I doubt it will disprove me. Chemotherapy is unpleasant and expensive. So that begs the question, why are these bruises so fresh?" Joan glanced at Eleanor and leaned in closer.

"You think—you think he was on drugs?" Sherlock nodded.

"And I think I know which." Sherlock leaned back on his heels, his lips flattened against each other in a grim line.

"Heroin?" He bowed his head.

"That would be the most logical assumption."

"Sherlock…"

"Painkiller, takes you out of the real world. Causes euphoria. Appealing for someone in a desperate situation. If I am not in error, he may have simply overdosed."

"But what about his last words. 'What have you done to me, you witch,' doesn't that suggest anything?"

"As I know you know, the minds of people on heroin don't function quite properly. Perhaps he personified the drug, or his cancer. Perhaps he spoke of the person that administered the drug. Perhaps this person was, in fact, Eleanor McNamara. But you are right, it signifies something. This may still be murder. Heroin may be the chosen method."

"What are you two talking about?" Detective Bell came up and stood between them.

"Sherlock thinks Carl died of a heroin overdose."

"Who is the in charge of this establishment?" Sherlock asked.

"Wait, heroin?" Bell looked at Joan, then Sherlock. "What makes you-"

"The manager, good detective! Who is the manager?"

"Robby Kent, that guy in the yellow shirt." Bell pointed to a fit man with graying hair. "But hang on a sec, I want to know-"

"Sorry detective, I'll have to catch you later. Text me, I won't reply. I must speak with Mr. Kent." Sherlock strode across the room. Detective Bell stared at him, and then turned to Watson.

"What's up with him?"

Mr. Kent was being questioned by a medic.

"No, really I'm fine, thank you. Yes, I'm sure, I'm fine. Positive. Just sad and a little shocked, but physically I'm fine. Mentally too, yes, just emotionally disturbed."

"Mr. Kent, may I have a word?" Kent looked at the medic, who shrugged and walked away.

"Sure. Are you the police?"

"Essentially. Do you own Panteras?" Sherlock folded his arms.

"No, I just run this class. Why?" Kent wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Sherlock shrugged.

"Curious. Were you acquainted with the late Carl McNamara?" Kent bobbed his head noncommittally.

"Yeah, you could say that. I saw him in every meditative session of the sanctum and inner sanctum."

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm not quite clear on the meaning of 'sanctum' used in this manner?" Sherlock tilted his head. Kent frowned.

"Sorry, what?"

"What do you mean by using the word 'sanctum'?" Joan walked up and stood next to Sherlock. Kent squinted.

"Not sure, really. It's what Adam calls it. Adam Dromsky, the owner. It's where people connect spiritually to their after-selves, and the ones of people they know."

"After-selves?"

"Well, yeah." Seeing the blank looks on Joan and Sherlock's faces, he tried to elaborate. "You know, you after you're gone. After death." Sherlock and Joan looked at each other. Her voice high, and struggling to keep it from escalating, Joan said.

"That's a very dangerous thing to do, Mr. Kent. You can't invent a religion and feed it to people who already in such fragile condition. It's very damaging to their mindset, especially if it's one that morbid." As she was saying it, Joan glanced at Sherlock, and saw the same repulsed look on it that she felt.

"Ah. I see you two aren't believers. It's a shame. You should come by sometime. It really works. Your life will change. Will that be all?" Kent smiled.

"For now, yes. Let's go, Watson." Sherlock pulled her away. She looked over her shoulder to see Kent, the angelic smile still present on his face, as tranquil in the middle of the bustling personnel as if it was a park in spring. Her blood shivered and burned at the same time. How could people so that? To take advantage of the most emotionally vulnerable people in the world was, to her, worse than murder. She stormed off after Sherlock.

Eleanor McNamara went home with Ms. Lindbar. Detective Bell had decided that questioning her that day was pointless. Now Sherlock and Joan sat, with Detective Bell in Captain Gregson's office, waiting for the results of the autopsy.

"The wife was a wreck. I don't see how she could have done it. I have to say I agree with Holmes's theory about the overdose. Maybe it was heroin, maybe it was something else. But it wasn't murder."

"Now let's not be premature, Detective Bell." Sherlock interlocked his fingers.

"What? An hour ago you said it was a heroin overdose, and now you're not sure?" Sherlock tilted his head.

"I am sure that it was an overdose that killed him. It could still be murder."

"But the wife had no motive to kill her husband—he was already dying." Joan said.

"Maybe he cut her out of the will or something." Bell said. Sherlock shook his head.

"He was bankrupt even before he had cancer, remember? The only money she was getting from him was life insurance, and by murdering him, that would be jeopardized." Sherlock rubbed his stubble.

"Well then who had motive to kill him? You're saying that it's murder and yet you have no suspects." Captain Gregson, leaning on his desk, pen in hand, glared. Joan frowned.

"There was that Panteras group. I don't know about you, but what their doing seems immoral and exploitive. We should put a stop to them."

"It's not so easy Ms. Watson." Gregson set his pen down and folded his arms. "Now if we can pin them for murder, then yes."

"Why would they want someone to die during one of their sessions? It doesn't make sense. It would give them a bad rep." Bell shook his head.

"It would make sense if he defrauded them somehow." Joan looked at Sherlock.

"I believe that while it is possible that Panteras could have motive to kill Carl McNamara, it is, as Detective Bell pointed out highly unlikely for them to do so during one of their own sessions." Joan sighed.

"Detective Bell, autopsy is in." The door opened. A blonde head poked into the room.

"Alright. Be back in a sec." Bell left the room.

"What I don't understand is why anyone would kill a man scheduled to die? What makes this look like murder, Holmes? It could even have been suicide. You know what I think? I think that you're still touchy on the drug thing, and so you're extra sensitive. You should be even more aware of the fact that people kill themselves, intentionally or no, with this stuff every day. It's not usually considered murder."

Sherlock leaned forward, hands on his knees. "Carl McNamara's reaction was not the reaction of a suicide. It was alarmed and frustrated. Now, I may be wrong, but I do not want to write this case off so rapidly. It has nothing to do with my previous addiction and I'd appreciate it if my personal matters stayed out of this conversation. Is there a problem with that?"

"Of course not. But I'd appreciate it if your personal matters stayed out, too. The time of my men is very valuable, and I don't want to see it wasted because you have some emotional hang-up!"

"Then I shall continue to investigate on my own." Sherlock sat back, crossing his legs and putting his fingers together.

"Come up with evidence, just one lead, and we'll back you."

"I've got it." The door opened and Detective Bell returned. Glancing between the captain and Sherlock he said, "Something wrong?"

"Not at all. The captain and I were simply having a little debate on the gravity of murder." Gregson glared at Sherlock. "Pray continue, Detective Bell."

"You were right, it was heroin. There were traces of previous usage of the drug in his system. And as for the cancer, even without the OD he had days to live." The detective looked up. "No sign of violence, or sedatives, the victim willingly received the dose."

"Doesn't prove anything, patient could have not known what was in the syringe."

"God, we've got a doctor slash sober companion and an addict looking at this case. Or rather, imagining it!" Gregson threw his hands up. "There is no case here."

"Captain, with all due respect, something is very wrong at Panteras. These people clearly have no morals and I wouldn't put it past them-"

"They are con men, Joan. And unfortunately, this country has freedom of religion, so if some poor fool decides to go to them, I can't stop him. There is also a huge difference between a con man and a murderer!"

"May I see the insurance policy of Carl McNamara?" Sherlock turned to Detective Bell.

"I'll see if I can get my hands on it. We're all on the same side here." He walked out again. Captain Gregson covered his face with a hand. After a moment, he said,

"I just don't see what there is to investigate. It's a horrible, awful story, but at the same time, no fingers point to anyone. There are hundreds of people dealing heroin out there." Sherlock stared straight ahead, his face blank. Joan shook her head, and said nothing. The thirty minutes it took for Bell to find McNamara's life insurance policy dripped by like molasses.

"Hey, I think this might be just what you're looking for. All of you I mean. But if it is, we have a much bigger problem on our hands than we thought." Detective Bell surveyed the other three. Everyone was silent. After a few seconds, Sherlock said,

"Let's have it then."

"Carl McNamara's policy was for three hundred thousand dollars, more than the McNamara's could really afford. To make up for that, the policy does not include death via substance abuse. Quote, unquote, 'should the holder die of the abuse of any illegal substance, this policy is invalid.' It's the only policy like this in the state of New York. Instead of less than fifty-thousand, the McNamaras were able to buy three-hundred thousand because of this line. Now to me, this sounds suspicious." Joan looked at Sherlock, then Detective Bell and said.

"So you're saying…"

"There is now one entity with motive. And that's the insurance company. Furthermore, I did a quick search, and three terminally ill cancer patients have died of heroin overdoses in the last year, all covered by this policy. Fortress Inc."

"Oh my God." Joan looked at Gregson. "How could you let this happen?"

Gregson's eyes were wide. "Give me that." He snatched the papers from Bell's hand. His eyes darted back and forth over the lines. He licked his teeth and stared at the office window.

"Get some men out to Fortress now. Arrest the president and CEO."

"Okay." Bell opened the door and was about to go out when the blonde officer rushed into the room.

"A Ms. Lindbar says to tell you she needs help. Someone named Eleanor McNamara has tried to hang herself. An ambulance has already been sent."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock rubbed his fingers together as he stared inside the hospital room. Nurses and technicians pushed past him, threatening his toes with computers, test tube racks, and portable x-ray machines. Joan stood beside him. It had been an hour since they arrived, and the bustle had yet to slow. The verdict was out, however. Eleanor McNamara would survive. They would put her on suicide watch for the next three days, and then release her. Her head immobilized by the neck brace, she stared at the ceiling, paying no attention to beeping machines and tubes. Joan would have thought her dead if not for the pulse on the heart monitor.

Being in the hospital felt strange, and being on this side of the glass felt stranger. Joan glanced at Sherlock. He was squinting, doubtless turning some theory over in his mind. They waited.

Fifteen minutes later, the doctor stepped to the side. Detective Bell came up from behind the counter where he had been talking to a paramedic.

"Me first, or all at once?" He looked from Sherlock to Joan.

"All at once will do nicely." Sherlock said, knitting his eyebrows. They entered the room.

"Hello Mrs. McNamara." She blinked, and glanced at them, but said nothing. Detective Bell frowned. "Mrs. McNamara?"

"I didn't do it." Her voice was hoarse.

"Do what?"

"Murder Carl. I didn't I don't know why he said what he did." Her face remained blank. She was worlds away from the hysteric woman they had seen earlier, but Joan didn't know which was worse.

"Are you sure that the late Mr. McNamara was speaking about you? Forgive the indelicacy, but was there any other woman in his life?"

"No. I wish there was. But the only women he stayed in contact with in the end are me and Helen Lindbar." She coughed.

"And you're sure it's not Helen?" Detective Bell raised his eyebrows. A smile crawled across Eleanor McNamara's face.

"Yes, I'm sure." For the first time, her eyes turned to them. They welled up with tears. "Because I'm the one who gave him the heroin. That's why I have to die. Guilt stains me."

"Wait a second, Mrs. McNamara. You said a minute ago that you didn't kill him."

"I didn't murder him. I gave him the same thing I always do. Carl didn't know it was heroin, he thought it was his regular IV. But when the doctors told me he had no chance, I didn't want him to spend his last weeks in misery. So I didn't murder him. No one did. The package must have been mislabeled."

"Who gave you this package, Mrs. McNamara?" Sherlock's voice was barely audible. Joan glanced at him. His jaw was tense and eyes shimmering strangely in the half-lit room. She realized this case brought back memories of a different kind for him. Mrs. McNamara swallowed.

"I-I can't tell you that." To Joan's surprise, Sherlock squatted beside her bed.

"Mrs. McNamara, we have reason to believe that someone has severely wronged both you and your late husband, and many others like you. Your testimony is essential to this case. I do believe you are the only one in possession of this particular piece of information."

"You're right. Someone has wronged us. Someone who was supposed to be on our side. But that's all I'm going to tell you, unless you can promise me something."

"What is that, Mrs. McNamara? We've got the best witness protection plan in all of New York. You'll be completely anonymous." Eleanor smiled.

"They'll know it was me. He's right," she pointed to Sherlock. "I am the only one who has this information that I know of."

"What do you want then?"

"Extend my suicide watch. Please…I-I'm afraid. Of myself. And of…others." Her voice trembled. Sherlock put his hand on hers.

"I don't think that will be a problem, Mrs. McNamara, will it, detective?" Overcoming surprise, Detective Bell said,

"No, no, not at all. Just tell Mr. Holmes what he wants to know." He looked at Joan. She shrugged.

"Who gave you the heroin, Mrs. McNamara?"

"Helen Lindbar. But she got it from Adam."

"Adam Dromsky?"

"I don't know for sure. The name sounds familiar." Detective Bell tapped Joan. He was excited. He motioned for them to leave.

"Thank you, Mrs. McNamara. That'll be all for now."

"We will do our best for you and Carl, I promise. This isn't your fault. Don't blame yourself." Sherlock stood up. Eleanor smiled. The detectives left. Shutting the door behind Sherlock, Detective Bell said,

"Adam Dromsky. That's the CEO of Fortress."

"Where is Mrs. McNamara's doctor?" Sherlock walked away. Detective Bell and Joan stared after him.

"Doesn't he see the connection? If the same guy runs Panteras and Fortress, it's a huge scam. He sells a bunch of policies he knows will never be fulfilled. Even if no one investigating the crime suspects heroin, he, as the insurance company, can have them tested."

"I'm sure Sherlock realizes that. Maybe he thinks you can handle it."

"You know Sherlock, he never misses the end of a case. It's his big show, the great reveal." Joan shook her head.

"Not this time." She followed Sherlock. Detective Bell shrugged. Sherlock was sitting in the lobby staring at some potted plants. Joan sat down next to him.

"They're fake you know." He gestured toward the plants. Joan nodded.

"Did you find her doctor?"

"Oh, yes. He says that'll be fine." Sherlock adjusted the neck of his pinstripe shirt and looked down, fingers interlocked.

"Sherlock…"

"I'm alright Joan." He took a deep breath.

"You're not."

"Well, you didn't expect me to admit it, did you?" He smiled. She frowned.

"I'm serious, Sherlock."

"Anything that reminds me of my past addiction tends to make me weepy and threaten my masculinity." Joan shook her head.

"What you did back there wasn't for yourself, it was for her."

"Well, perhaps I evaluated the timing and decided that her need was greater than my own. Are we finished?" Sherlock put his hands on his knees. Joan nodded.

"Sure, whatever you want."

"You are no longer required to empathize with me Watson. We are partners." Sherlock stood up. Joan stood up too.

"That's fine. I just thought we were starting to be friends." She walked towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Panteras. I want to be there when they shut it down."

A month later they sat in Captain Gregson's office. Detective Bell was reading off the notes for the court case.

"Adam Dromsky's looking at life plus, as are a few of his top confederates. Helen Lindbar, maybe a month, jury will sympathize. Less for Eleanor McNamara. She's still under observation, but her sister from Ohio is in the city now, living with her. Once she gets the okay, it's likely they'll move back together. Total victims found, twenty-two and counting. We lost the drug trail at the state line of Virginia. This thing's been right under our nose for years." He glanced at Captain Gregson.

"I guess now you can say 'I told you so.' It's unbelievable that we missed it for so long."

"Dromsky was a clearly a man of genius." Sherlock said.

"You know, there's a memorial service for the victims this Saturday at five. Are we going?" Joan said. Sherlock shook his head.

"I'm busy."

"You know Mrs. McNamara asked specifically for you. She texted me. Here, look." Sherlock took her phone.

"Why does she have your number?" Joan shrugged.

"I always give my number to people who need to talk."

_Dr. Watson, I'd like to invite you and Mr. Holmes to the memorial service. Don't feel obligated to come, I understand that you're busy. If you don't come, I'd just like to say thank you. I truly believe that I owe you my life and conscience. If I had anything more to give you, I would. Eleanor McNamara. _

Sherlock stared at the text for a moment. "Perhaps I'm not as busy as I thought." He handed Joan back her phone and smiled. She smiled back. "We could go I suppose." Sherlock continued. He looked her in the eye. "As friends."

THE END


End file.
